Some Memories Are Better Lost
by MagickBeing
Summary: Harry was in a coma after the final battle. He has awakened now, but he finds his mind wiped clean and his verbal skills gone. When Draco shows up to help, will he trigger Harry's memory? And if he does, what if Harry was better not remembering?
1. Chapter 1

**Some Memories Are Better Lost  
**_Chapter One;_

You can't remember.

You want to, but can't. You sit for hours, staring at the wall, willing memories that are long lost to return.

They never do.

Maybe it's for the better. Maybe it's better you don't know the cause of your visitor's tears, maybe it's better that you can't remember their names, and maybe, just maybe, it's better that they no longer tell them to you.

You _wish_ you couldn't remember your dreams.

You don't dream that frequently, but when you do.. They aren't nice dreams. They're bloody and torturous, and when they visit you, you awake in a cold sweat, heart-wrenching screams echoing in your mind--

It is then that you cry.

You cry until you drift into a deep sleep, and when you wake, you can't remember why there are tear stains on your cheeks. You try to remember, but discover it's like trying to hold water in your palms.

Someone knocks, interrupting you from what thought you can manage, and a girl with red hair enters.

She smiles at you, and takes a seat beside your bed. You frown slightly, but show no other movement as she talks. She talks about her day, about how people miss you. Tears begin to form in her eyes as she repeats that you're missed, and your frown deepens.

She takes your hand.

Immediately it feels as if the walls are closing in, and her skin against yours is all that you can think about as you struggle to breath. The room begins to spin, the colors blurring in front of your eyes, invisible hands tightening around your lungs with each passing moment. You begin to thrash in your bed, silently screaming for her to let go, your entire body shaking with fear. She drops your hand in surprise, tears still running down her cheeks. You gulp in air, but your shaking continues, and you barely notice as a nurse runs in and escorts her from the room.

The moment she leaves, your room stops spinning.

They don't allow anyone else to visit you that day. They say that you're to shaken, and you can do nothing but sit there and agree. Carefully, without touching you, a nurse comes in and tucks you in, softly reminding you of your name.

You don't dream that night, and for that, you are thankful, though it would be unlikely that you would remember it anyways.

You wake, the light from the window above your room obscuring your vision as you lazily open your eyes. When you do, a man is standing beside you. At first, when you look at him, he appears to be an angel, and you wonder if it's your time. You wonder if he is death, beautiful and composed, yet a wanderer and plague of the worlds. You stare at him in wonder, unable to breath.

Somehow, he seems familiar.

His head is bowed, and as you continue to stare, you wonder if his eyes hold your memories. A silly thought, a thought which you try to brush away, but stays echoing in the back of your mind. He moves suddenly, gracefully moving to the lone chair beside your bed and it is then that you realize he is no angel. He is just a man, like you, and the glare of the sun was playing tricks with your eyes. He sits there for a long while, his head bowed, unmoving except for the slight lift of his shoulders as he breathed. He seems sad, and you can do nothing but watch him and wonder.

It turns to be one of the few times you wish you could speak.

The silence around you is suffocating. Finally, he speaks. His voice is soft, barely audible, and somehow familiar.

"I'm sorry," he begins, "for not visiting you sooner. It's been hard."

His voice comes out rational, without emotion. "I was going to hurry home when I heard you had awaken but..."

He trails off, unsure of what he was going to say, and you squint your eyes at him in curiosity, something you hadn't felt for a long time.

"I'm sorry," he repeats.

Moments pass, neither of you moving, and you feel the tension building. With each second that passes, you silently urge him to lift his head. Again, the thought that he could be the key to your memory echoes in your mind.

He takes in a deep breath, suddenly, and you wonder if, like the others, you've driven him to tears.

"Please say something. I need to know you forgive me.. for not coming sooner.."

You know he's waiting for an answer, and you would do anything to give him one. He is a stranger in your mind, and yet you feel closer to him then you do yourself. In your mind you're screaming at him that you can't speak, one of the few things you manage to remember day to day. However, you know he can't hear you.

No one can.

A minute passes and yet he waits, staring at his shoes until finally, he lets out a soft sigh and says, "I guess that's what I deserve. I just.. I'm sorry."

You keep your eyes trained on him as he stands, stuffing his gloved hands in his jacket pockets and looking towards you. His face is pale and slightly on the narrow side in some places, and light blond hair frames his face. His eyes never quite meet your's as if he's ashamed, but they seem to be the color of ash.

"I'm sorry," he said again, turning towards the door. He let out a soft sigh and walked towards the exit, stopping once in the door frame.

He whispered something over his shoulder, his words barely audible. He stood there for a moment, as if he was hoping you would finally make a reply before leaving.

You close your eyes, unable to watch his back retreating around the corner, but the sound of his feet padding away echos in your mind. You lay there for the rest of the day, paying no attention to other visitors, your mind circling around the last words he said.

_I love you, Harry._

And as you think, you can't help but wonder what love is

* * *

**Author's note: **This was originally going to be a one-shot, but I was satisfied with ending it the way I did, and yet I knew I wanted to add more. So, it will probably be a few chapters long. How long, I don't know. It basically depends where my muse takes me. 

I know I should be working on my other stories, but after my already written chapters were deleted, I just haven't felt the inspiration to rewrite them, and in some cases, re-rewrite them. Hopefully that will change over Christmas break.

Now, if something in this story has confused you, feel free to say so in a review. I think the main thing that will confuse people though, will be why the man didn't know Harry couldn't talk. This is because he was out of the country at the time, and had just gotten home. Harry had awaken a few days prior. He also assumed Harry could talk, even though he may have known Harry couldn't move, because in the Wizarding World, there are charms and such that can be placed to process someone's thoughts into verbal words. More of why Harry was in a coma, and why the hospital staff couldn't just charm away the aftermath of his coma to come in the next chapter.

That about raps this author's note up-- remember to review!


	2. Chapter 2

**Some Memories Are Better Lost**  
_Chapter Two;_

You remember someone.

You can't put a name to their face; hell, you can't really even put a face to their body. You reach for the memory as if it were the only thing that could keep you alive, but the person in it is nothing but a blur. When you think of them you hurt.

It's a hurt you're unacustumed to. It's not like the sort of hurt you get inside your stomach when that red-headed girl comes into the room and tries comforting you with her hands, nor is it like the hurt you get inside your head when you awake in the middle of the night silently screaming. It's different. You can feel it, yet it's not there. It isn't like normal pain. It isn't a dull throbbing inside of your head, or a jabbing, burning sensation near your heart. The best way to describe the feeling may be that it feels as if it _is_ you; that dull ache that consumes your entire body as you strain your mind.. but you know that's impossible and quickly brush the thought away, along with the afterthought of, _why is it impossible?_

Despite this hurt, you're absolutely thrilled that you're starting to remember.

Your gaze shifts from your hands, which are lying uselessly in your lap, to the door as it creaks open, a man with light hair entering. He seems so familiar, and you squint at him, as if urging his name to appear over his head in bright, neon letters. He looks at you in silence, just standing there. It looks as if it hurts for him to breathe.

You wonder if it's the same hurt-- ache-- you're feeling now, or if it's like normal pain.. pain you can name, that the nurses can fix.

Slowly, he steps into the room. He almost seems to glide across the floor as he moves to the chair beside you, his eyes never leaving yours. You find it hurts to look at him, and you turn your gaze away. You can hear him sigh, and out of the corner of your eye, you catch him running a pale, manicured hand through his light blonde hair.

He's still staring at you. It's sort of unnerving, really.

Finally he speaks, his voice much too soft to belong to an actual human.

"I shouldn't have came back. I just.. need to know you forgive me."

You don't answer him, though you can feel his eyes on your face. You can't answer him.

His voice is a whisper now, and it sounds like it hurts.

"You can't talk.. or remember, can you?"

You only turn your eyes to him, as if in silent agreement.

"The nurse told me," he continues, his gaze flitting between your eyes, and the wall. "I.. I didn't want to believe it. Gods, Harry, I just.."

He trails off, a small, choking noise erupting from his mouth. He lifts his hands, buring his face in his palms, and his shoulders begin to shake. You want to reach out and comfort him, to run your hand soothingly across his shoulder; despite the pain and dizziness it would probably cause. You don't even know him, and yet you can't help but feel as if you should.

And you probably should.

He's mumbling to himself, now. His words are muffled against his skin, and you strain to hear him.

"Gods, Harry.. I just.. I hurt. Everytime I look at you, I hurt, and I just want to take you in my arms and make everything better," he pauses, another noise erupting from his mouth. You realize he's crying as he continues, "but I can't. And that hurts even more. I just.. there's got to be something! They can't just let you lay here and give up, can they?"

He's looking up, now; his cheeks have invisible streams running down them, and your eyes burn as you look at him. He leans back into his chair, running a hand through his hair as if it'll assist in calming him.

His eye are focusing on the wall behind you, and softly he mumbles, "They can't just give up.."

His eyes focus on yours, and you can see the light rim of red around them.

"Spells don't do this Harry.. I wish.. I wish you could tell me what happened."

You close your eyes, his words repeating in your mind. You wish you could tell him what happened too, but you can't, and that's a fact you've had to accept. You don't remember. You want to, but you can't.

Slowly, you open your eyes. He's still staring at you, and the burning in the back of your eyes increase. You feel something wet slide down your cheek, and he moves suddenly, staring at you with a shocked expression.

"Please don't cry, baby," his voice is soft, pleading, "please.."

His hand hovers over yours, and you both stare at it as you continue to cry. He seems unsure of whether or not he should attempt to touch you, and you have the strong suspicion the nurse warned him of the other day's incident. Which you're surprised you remember yourself.

But then anything that has to do with pain, you seem very happy to remember. Very happy.. ha.

And then his palm is pressed against the back of your hand, and you steal yourself away for the pain, for the dizziness. But it never comes. And the lack of thrashing, or silent screams, encourages him, and he lifts your hand, enveloping it all of the way into his, his fingers entwined with your own. He lowers his head a bit, his eyes still on yours, and presses a soft kiss to the back of your hand, murmuring, "Please don't cry."

But you can't stop, and watch silently as he moves himself from the chair beside your bed to the side of the mattress, which dips slightly under the additional weight. He takes you in his arms, shifting your position, and you can do nothing but lay there, motionless. With your head pressed against his shoulder, you continue to cry, uncomfortably aware of the hand rubbing small circles on your back, and the face pressed against yours, whispering comforting words in your ear.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Alright, lets all say it together now; oh my god, she's alive! Yes, well.. you all better thank Dieu Anonyme for finally making me get this chapter out.. I've had it done for a few weeks, at least, and it's just been.. hiding, on my computer. For a day or two there, I thought I might have lost it, as my computer had to be restored. Anyways, I'm not entirely sure how long this will be.. at one point, I know I had a plot for it, but I sort of lost it. Guess that's what happens when I don't work on something for a long, long time, hmm?

By the way, thanks to all of you who reviewed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Some Memories Are Better Lost  
**_Chapter Three;_

You're lonely.

It feels as if something is missing, as if something should be there but isn't, and you don't know what. Your eyes move across the room slowly, taking in the shadows cast on the walls. The lights are dimmed because of the time, or so you assume... you don't really know what time it is; you've just awoken. There's a strange familiarity about the room and you know that you've been here for awhile. In your sleep-fogged mind, you entertain the wild idea that the room itself is the reason for your lack of memory, that the room has consumed you, bled into your very being... almost as if it were magic.

As your thoughts become clearer, however, such notions leave you. It will do you no good to imagine or believe in such fantastic stories. They will not get your memory back. This you know.

You close your eyes, tired of staring at the wall in front of you. You try to will yourself asleep again but something unidentifiable is distracting you; some nagging thought in the back of your mind. You try to focus, but the thought remains blurred, just beyond your grasp.

You wonder if it will always be like this. If it will always be this familiar yet unfamiliar to you--this sensation of utter hopelessness, of remembering but not. You know there are others that are worse off, that you shouldn't feel sorry for yourself. You can hear their screams sometimes... or maybe those are in your dreams and not those in the surrounding rooms you? You can't really tell the difference anymore. Pain is pain, plain and simple.

And your mind continues with this train of thought until suddenly, you're falling. All you can see, feel, smell, taste, is darkness. You try to open your eyes but can't; it's as if they're sewn shut. Your body thrashes and thrashes in the nothingness until you begin to slow, stopping completely shortly after. It is then that the darkness changes, shifts around you--you can feel it. You are no longer afraid, but comforted, the darkness becoming your cocoon until your body relaxes and your eyes open.

The darkness is gone.

There is only light now; pure, brilliant, quivering light. It hurts but feels so good at the same time and you realize that this could easily become your new addiction.

Slowly, however, the light changes, darkening until it's red. You close your eyes, trying to choose the darkness over the red, but it's too late. The screams start. Painful, heart-wrenching screams that make your entire body shake with their force. Your body begins to tense again as the screams wrap around you, sinking into your very being until they're part of you, flowing through your blood and thought. Your entire body tenses and the pain is so intense that--

And then there is nothing.

It's gone, leading you to believe that it may have only been your imagination.

When you open your eyes the darkness has vanished and you can see clearly again; the shadows have retreated and the sun has returned. Your eyes move across the room, landing on the person beside you.

Leaning forward in his chair, he looks at you with dark eyes, his gaze surveying your face. His gaze is so intense that you can feel it, it makes your skin prickle with that unidentifiable sort of pain that you desperately want to escape from. His eyes drop and yours follow. It is then that you notice your entwined hands.

"You were screaming."

Your gaze switches to his face, as if you need to be looking at him to hear him properly. His voice is so soft and as if detecting your gaze, he shifts, blond hair spilling across his forehead to hide his eyes. The sun splashes across his face from the window behind you, giving his face a soft, moon-like glow. You wish you could reach up and touch it.

"The bloody nurse didn't know what to do. After all of this time..." he trails off, turning his face slightly so that his hair falls from his face, his eyes meeting yours. "After all of this time, they still don't have a clue."

He swallows, his eyes searching yours.

"Harry.." he murmurs, and you barely recognize the name as your own. "I wish I had been there. I wish I knew what happened... but this..."

He raises his hand slightly, yours lifting with it.

"...this is a good sign."

You look down at your hand again, your fingers laced with his. His hands are narrow but pretty, soft looking even, and his nails are perfectly manicured. He tightens his grasp, giving your hand a small squeeze, his fingers brushing across the back of your hand, caressing your knuckles. His touch is so gentle that small shivers travel up your arm and melt into your chest, causing your heart to quicken.

"This shows your healing, that your body wants to return to normal, wants to remember," he says urgently, his voice no more than a whisper. His gray eyes lighten considerably as your eyes meet his again and he gives you a small, sad smile. "And when you do remember, Harry, I'll make it up to you, I swear. For not being there... I'll make it up to you."

It is then that you close your eyes—the hope written across his face is too much. It is a look that you know all too well, and if you look any longer, it could very easily become contagious, which could prove disastrous. You don't want hope. Hope always lets you down.

You don't want to be let down again.

Beside you, you hear him sigh. You imagine he's crying, and if you could see him you would know that you're right. His eyes are watering, small droplets cascading down his face and cutting the glow of the sun.

Almost shaking, his fingers unlace from yours. You miss the contact, your skin tingling where he had been touching. You want him to grab your hand again, to come closer and hold you... you wonder what that would feel like, unable to remember the previous day. You wonder if it would feel as right as his hand on yours.

You know that if you open your eyes and look at him, his hand would most likely return to yours, comforting the silent hurt in your eyes. And as much as you want that, your eyes remain closed.

Another minute passes until finally, he speaks, his voice soft and trembling, "You want to remember, don't you?"

You remain silent, as if you have any other choice, unsure of how you would answer that question even if you could.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Yes, I still live. Unfortunately, even though she said she was going to be, Dieu Anonyme was not standing above me, whip in hand and making me write this. I've wrote it because Ineeded an escape from what's been going on this past week, and nine chances out of ten, I will be writing some more within the next week. I hope this chapter met everyone's expectations and that it isn't disappointing... it was harder than usual for me to continue the flow of this story, maybe because I haven't written fanfiction in nearly six months aside from my roleplay with SecondHand, which has been updated by the way, if anyone would like to check it out. It's entitled Out of This World and can be found here--

fanfiction .net /s/ 2600486/4/

...remember to delete the spaces.

Anyway, I think that's enough of my rambling... I just have one more thing to say--thanks to all of you who reviewed!


	4. Chapter 4

**Some Memories Are Better Lost**  
_Chapter Four;_

You awake to the sound of screaming.

This time the screaming is not inside of your head, but outside of your room. You blink away the last moments of sleep, furrowing your brow, and staring hard at the closed door. Its shape is dark and blurred—eventually it becomes clearer, and you automatically pick out two voices. One is a woman's, and one is a man's. The former is yelling, screaming at points, and the latter is simply a bit loud, accusing, and thick with anger.

"YOU NEED TO TELL HIM, DAMNIT!"

"I'll do no such thing. You need to mind your own goddamn business, you_filthy _little W—"

"OH, _I'M _THE FILTHY ONE! RIIIIGHT—BECAUSE IT WAS _MY _FAMILY THAT HELPED HE-WHO-WILL-NOT-BE-NAMED RISE TO POWER, _MY _FAMILY THAT KILLED DOZENS, HUNDREDS OF INNOCENT PEOPLE—BECAUSE _I'M _THE ONE THAT BETRAYED EVERYONE, BECAUSE _I'M _THE ONE THAT SET AN ORPHANAGE ON FIRE AND—"

You can hear the man trying to get a word in edge wise, but the woman refuses to let him. She continues to yell over him, and you can hear someone approaching, running closer and closer. A nurse, maybe, to break up the scene. You wonder who it is that's fighting.

"STOOD THERE AND WATCHED AS DOZENS OF HELPLESS CHILDREN DIED BECAUSE THEY WEREN'T _PURE _ENOUGH. BECAUSE _I'M _THE ONE THAT, SOMEHOW, MERLIN KNOWS HOW, MANAGED TO MANIPULATE MY WAY INTO A MAN'S HEART THAT'S MORE PURE THAN _YOU_CAN EVER EVEN DREAM TO THINK! BECAUSE _I _LEFT HIM WHEN HE NEEDED ME THE MOST, WHEN _I _SWORE TO LOVE HIM! BECAUSE _I'M _THE ONE THAT LEFT HIM TO DIE, AND NOW WANT WHAT, HIS FORGIVENESS? YOU DON'T—"

"_MS. WEASLEY! _Lower your voice this INSTANT!"

You assume this woman is a nurse, or an employee of some sort, angry about the disruption. Your thoughts catch on what she calls the woman, Ms. Weasley, and you try putting a face to the name, but you're—of course—unable to.

"Don't even _begin _to lecture me, Weasley, as if you're a _saint. _You broke his _heart—_cheated on him what—"

"Mr. Malfoy, that is enough from you as well!" yelled the nurse, addressing the other party.

Malfoy. _Malfoy. _Why did that sound so familiar, yet so _un_familiar?

"—three times? Four? You stand here and lecture me about how _pure _he is, and how _lucky _I was to ever get a _shot, _and yet you couldn't keep _it_ OUT of your damn pants!"

They are yelling over each other now, a jumble of words and anger and _hate. _You can clearly recognize the hate. You can taste it, as if it's a physical being, slipping underneath your door and circling your face, tinging your breath.

"I SAID, ENOUGH MR. MALFOY."

"Oh, _that's _mature—out of everything you've done—"

"That goes for you too, Ms. Weasley! One more word out of either of you, and I'll have you physically removed."

And then things are silent. So silent that you wonder if you imagined it all—if this was some trick your mind was playing on you, teasing you with a memory that wasn't really _real. _You search the door for any sign of movement, for a shadow to step in front of it and slip into your room, but none comes. It is perfectly silent. No footsteps, no voices, no shadows. And then the door opens.

In steps a man with light blond hair and pale, narrow features. Behind him isa considerably bigger gentleman, with broad shoulders and the reflection of the florescent light bouncing off of his head. This man is wearing all white and a shiny, new name tag. You can vaguely identify him as a nurse's assistant. He shuts the door behind himself and the other man, standing with his back against it, eyes never leaving his counterpart. He has dark, beady eyes. You're glad he's staring at the other and not you.

You switch your eyes to the lighter haired man. He seems familiar, and by the way he's walking, you surmise he's unhappy about the other man's presence. He seems tense, as if he is walking on egg shells, and his eyes never quite meet yours, although he's looking at you nonetheless. In a quick, languid movement, he takes the seat beside your bed.

A moment passes in tense silence, your eyes flicking back and forth between the two men. Finally, the light haired one speaks.

"Hello, Harry."

His voice is soft, warm, but recognizable. You can clearly identify him as the man that was fighting with that woman. Mr. Malloy, wasn't it? No.. Malof? Malfoy? Yeah. _Malfoy. _That. You wonder if he can see his name on your face, for he smiles broadly at you, something unexpected that lights up his whole face. You furrow your brow. Can this really be the man that was fighting so angrily, just minutes before? If so, does time deceive you? Does your _mind? _He doesn't _sound _angry, nor does he look it. Was it really just minutes ago, the fight outside your door?

He reaches out and touches your hand with a pale, manicured one of his own. You steal yourself away for the pain, but it never comes, and a sense of deja vu tells you this has happened before. You brush the notion away, for you are unable to remember anything—how can you have deja vu? Nonetheless, you're pleasantly surprised he doesn't hurt like everyone else does, and you look over at him through your eyelashes. He smiles at you again, entwining your fingers with his.

He seems in a pleasant enough mood, though there is still some tension in his shoulders and hands. You can feel it in his hands.

"I hope you're feeling well enough today," he started off quietly, glancing over at the big, burly man by the door. Your eyes followed his. The man in white bore no emotion, and simply returned the looks with a hard one of his own. Mr. Malfoy looked back at you, and you returned your eyes to his. "I'd like to try something, Harry, if you'll let me. I read.. somewhere.. that some events may be able to help trigger your memory, provided this isn't a spell. A spell would need a keyword, which I don't know.."

His voice softened considerably at that last part, as if he blamed himself, and his eyes moved down to your interlocked hands.

"I want to tell you what we did the last time we were.. together."

Together? Is this man, this Mr. Malfoy, a long lost friend? You suppose the idea shouldn't surprise you so much. Usually those that visit you claim to know you, somehow. Why else would they visit? Or rather, this is what you assume, because you can't actually remember others. You can only think of him right now, this man sitting in front of you with the sun leaking in through the nearby window, lighting his hair as if it were a halo.

"Is that.. okay, Harry?"

He glances up with this question, searching your face.

You simply blink, unable to give any other reply.

His jaw tightens and he nods, looking at your hands again.

"Okay—well, uh.." he pauses, letting out a soft, nervous breath, "where to start?"

His voice cracks, just slightly, and you pity him. _You _pity _him. _And you do it as if it's the most natural thing ever. He begins talking again, and you watch him as closely as possible. It makes you feel slightly awkward—you have the urge to look away, but there's something in his expression, something soft and indescribable that won't let you.

"We only had a few days left before the big battle—you were feeling down. It was summer. I wanted to surprise you, so I brought you to your favorite spot. It's uh, it's along the cliff side. It looks down at the ocean—it has a beautiful view." He pauses, swallowing and licking his lips. "Gorgeous, really. There's a small, wooden table under a willow tree. There are rocks for seats. I still don't understand why you like that so much, how you can sit on those rocks as if they're the most comfortable thing ever—but it makes you.. _made _you happy. I could see it in your face and I couldn't complain when it made you happy. So little made you happy then, Harry.." he trails off for a moment, thinking, and his breathing becomes a bit rougher when he starts again.

You wonder if you're going to make him cry.

"When we first started seeing each other, you found amusement in the littlest things. A butterfly brought light into your eyes.. but that light died. I don't know when, but it did, and I missed it. So I couldn't complain at something that brought it back.. anyway, uhm, the sun was almost setting. The sky was a mess of colors, all twisted into one, and you could see the sun's reflection on the water. There were fireflies in the willow tree. I had set up a small picnic at the table—candles and everything. You were speechless, and I could see a bit of the light returning. I had prepared your favorite, spaghetti and garlic bread.. you had always been easy to please."

He smiles a bit at this, his voice cracking, and the pity beats inside of you. There is something about him—maybe it's the way he sits in his chair, so straight and proper, or the clothes he wears... but there's something about him that tells you he's the sort that likes being in control, the sort that frowns down on weakness. To see him like this, _hear _him like this—it's heartbreaking and wrong. So wrong.

He continues and you close your eyes, trying to picture his description in your mind.

"There were chocolate covered strawberries for desert. I was wearing the shirt you liked best—a black button up, rolled to my elbows, unbuttoned at the top, with dark jeans. I could tell you loved everything—you were happy, at ease for the first time in weeks, and yet you wouldn't say anything to me. You'd barely look me in the eye. Dinner was tense, but good. Afterwards, we sat and watched the sun die, the fireflies dancing around us. We held each other and finally, the fact that we weren't speaking wasn't so awkward. And then you left."

At this, you open your eyes, a bit unhappy with the way the story was going because to you, it was just that. A story. Not a memory, but a story of two people that were supposed to love each other—you had almost been able to picture it. The dark, churning water, colored with the sun's goodbye.. the long, green tangles of the willow tree with fireflies weaving in and out of the leaves. This man, pale and warm with his arms around another. A man, whose face was dark and blurred, for you refused to believe it was you he described. You could hear his love in his voice—his pain—and you refused to believe you were the reason for both of those things.

Mr. Malfoy looks up, his eyes meeting yours. They're watering, small droplets sliding down his face and discoloring his skin. He blinks them away, eyes diverting, clearly ashamed.

His voice is soft but steady.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I'm sorry I let you leave. I'm sorry I didn't follow you—it all happened so quickly. One moment you were there, content, and then you were so angry. So suddenly angry—I thought you were in one of your moods.. but if I had followed you, maybe you wouldn't be here. Maybe things would be different.. maybe I wouldn't be telling you this, but reliving it—I just, I'm sorry, Harry. I'm so sorry."

His hand tightens around yours and you frown inside, studying the side of your face. Even though you know he can't hear you, there is something pleading in his touch that makes you silently shout, '_Me too.'_

_

* * *

  
_

**Author's note: **As if I have any readers left.. but, if I do, you should thank Serum Patfey for this. She messaged me regarding the story and, originally, I wanted to reply that, unfortunately, this was a lost cause as it had been four years since I had updated.. but instead I procrastinated doing homework and read over what I had already written, which inspired me to write this. Whether or not I'll update again is unknown. I'll try, maybe, but no promises...**  
**


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